


June

by MellytheHun



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Richie Tozier, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Soft Richie Tozier, Tumblr Prompt, cursing, problematic characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 11:17:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20834579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: An anon asked for a nap date fic for Eddie and Richie, but instead, I made this monstrosity and I'm so sorry omg"He can’t handle being alone with Eddie anymore.He squats next to Eddie, brings their faces close, and he looks at the freckles on Eddie’s cheeks, the familiar chestnut hair perfectly quaffed at his fringe, how long, and thick his eyelashes seem against his sunburnt cheeks.He wants.Desperately."





	June

**Author's Note:**

> TW: There's a flashback in here with Richie's father being horribly homophobic, insulting Richie (using a homophobic slur), being domineering and terrifying, and generally abusive. There is no violence, but as it's how my own father treated me, it could be triggering for anyone who has had an alcoholic and/or abusive parent/guardian/partner. Please read carefully!
> 
> Richie also has a panic attack, has self-punishing thoughts, and toward the end, Richie uses the word 'p**sy,' as an insult. 
> 
> If I should warn/tag for anything else, let me know in the comments!

“Oh,” Richie utters softly, staring at the calm, picture of innocence lounging in the hammock.

It’s three in the afternoon, the sun is still high, but slanted enough into their hideaway that the constant dust particles floating around look like little fairies in the air, and everything seems to have a soft, glazed glow about it. 

The club house is empty, but for the U2 cassette (that almost _ certainly _ belongs to Ben) that’s playing from the stereo, and Eddie, deeply unconscious in the hammock with a _ Shazam! _ comic spread over his chest.

“Eddie?” Richie asks, though he knows Eddie’s a deep sleeper - unlikely to stir unless there’s an actual earthquake occurring. 

Sighing, Richie finds he doesn’t have the heart to announce himself anymore loudly.

Hanging as he is on the ladder, Richie is able to glance back, and up, checking that he and Eddie are actually, definitely alone, as it’s a rare occurrence these days. 

Middle school, they were inseparable, and spent plenty of time together, away from the rest of the Losers too, but high school started up, and Richie began to rely on the Losers to be a buffer between himself and Eddie.

He found himself weak against temptation, his ability to protect Eddie from himself wavering with time, and the simplest answer was to just hide in plain sight - Eddie eventually stopped sitting so closely, stopped choosing Richie as his class partner, stopped asking to come over, stopped inviting himself to sleep over Richie’s on the weekends, and though it hurt, Richie knew it was for the best.

That’s what he told himself every night he stared up at his ceiling, feeling like his chest was caving in, like a great chunk of him had been scooped out, and flung out the window - feeling like all the dark thoughts, and bad feelings would just disappear if he picked up the Goddamn phone, and called.

Eddie’s voice alone could banish old demons, put away ashy memories, kill monsters - but Richie was fucked up, and dirty in a way Eddie couldn’t see. In a way Richie had to protect Eddie from, since he couldn’t see it, himself.

He wanted to tell Eddie what happened, why everything had to change, but he knew it could only end in one of two ways. 

He knew Eddie would either put up the biggest, bitchiest fight he could muster, or he’d scurry away in disgust - there would be no in between, no middle ground, and frankly, Richie couldn’t face either outcome.

He swallows roughly, because they are very much alone at the club house, on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, and Richie is just as in love with Eddie at seventeen, as he was when they were thirteen.

He wonders why Eddie’s here alone, and he’s almost wounded that Eddie didn’t try to invite him along, if he knew he was going to abscond to the club house for the afternoon for privacy, but then - Richie had given him such a cold shoulder for so long, why would he?

Sighing again, Richie steps down from the ladder, approaching the hammock.

Eddie’s short for seventeen. 

Maybe he’ll always be short.

Richie likes that.

He likes everything about Eddie, though.

“Eds,” Richie whispers with no real intention of waking him, “... you know you’re still my best friend, right?”

Richie leans a forearm on the pillar holding up one of the ends of the hammock, closest to Eddie’s sleeping face. 

He smiles a watery smile, his eyes swim as he stares down at Eddie, and he confesses quietly, “I miss you. You know, right? I hope you know. Even if you don’t get why. I just… I…”

Eddie’s brow is relaxed in sleep, and he’s a little sunburnt from a day prior, when the Losers were at the quarry, swimming at high noon on a day with absolutely no clouds. His cheeks are pink, and his hair is mussed from nuzzling his head back into a shitty pillow Bill made in Home Ec last year, and his chest rises and falls in a steady, slow rhythm. 

Richie could watch it all day, all night - which terrifies him. 

Eddie is asleep, he ought to be boring. He’s _ meant _ to be boring. He is in no way entertaining Richie, or anyone, with anything - he’s unconscious.

But he’s soft, asleep. 

His skin looks like it’d taste the way springtime sunshine _ feels _, his hands have swirly knuckles that Richie wants to trace with his own fingertips, and there, his chest just rises, and falls, simple as anything. Rises, and falls, quiet, reliable, consistent, comfortable. 

He hopes Eddie’s dreaming sweetly. 

He ghosts his fingers over Eddie’s arm, raising goosebumps as he goes, but Eddie doesn’t stir.

“I should leave,” Richie tells no one, knowing full well he won’t - knowing full well he can’t.

This is why he needs buffers.

He can’t handle being alone with Eddie anymore. 

He squats next to Eddie, brings their faces close, and he looks at the freckles on Eddie’s cheeks, the familiar chestnut hair perfectly quaffed at his fringe, how long, and thick his eyelashes seem against his sunburnt cheeks.

He wants. 

Desperately. 

“I can’t keep doing this, Eddie,” Richie admits, unsure of how to explain what he means, knowing it’d be a disaster even if he could explain himself.

Eddie’s lips are just barely parted, and they look velvety to the touch; Richie’s hands start to shake.

He leans in closer, knowing what he’s about to do, but unable to stop himself.

* * *

“What are you up to?”

Stunned his father was acknowledging him at all, Richie paused on his way through the kitchen.

There was a glass of something strong, and straight on the table - half-finished by the looks, but it was unlikely to be the first drink of the night, nor the last. 

Richie tread lightly.

“Getting water - I’m going to bed.”

His father didn’t look up from his dinner plate before saying, “let me clarify - what are you up to with that Kaspbrak boy, Richie.”

It was much more a statement than a question.

Richie looked around for some sign of Eddie, genuinely confused for a moment, because he wasn’t sure where the line of questioning was coming from.

“Nothing? I don’t… I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know _ damn well _ what I mean.”

Like a startled animal, Richie jumped when his father’s fist made contact with the tabletop. 

“You think I don’t know you sneak out at night? You think I’m some kind of _ idiot _?”

“No!” Richie denied immediately, nerves building with his father’s obvious ire, “I don’t think -”

“I _ know _ you don’t _ think _, Richie,” his father sneered, taking a sip of his drink, “I know. And I know you think I don’t know where you go when you sneak out, but I do. You spend nights at that boy’s house. You’re fifteen. You think I don’t know what you’re doing over there?”

Richie began to blush deeply, his hands shook, and his heart thundered, “dad, we’re just friends - Eddie and I - we - I’ve never -”

“You’re lucky I haven’t told your mother, you know,” his father stated grimly, looking disgusted with himself, “I should, but I haven’t. Don’t even know how to say it to her. But don’t think for one second that if she knew, she wouldn’t be calling Mrs. Kaspbrak in the same heartbeat.”

The silence was damning, but it felt too dangerous to speak, either, so Richie remained statuesque. 

His father finally deigned to look at him.

“So, Richie, I’ll ask you again. What are you up to with that Kaspbrak boy?”

Richie showed his hands, gesturing vaguely, wide-eyed, heart going a mile a minute, “dad, I swear, _ nothing _ \- we - _ nothing _! I go over, we listen to music, read comic books, and we do homework, sometimes - it’s not -”

“Fifteen year old boys don’t sneak around at night for comic books, and homework buddies, Richie,” his father intercepted, more ornery by the second, “What are you doing with that boy?”

“Jesus, dad, _ nothing _ !” Richie stage-whispered, worried his mother would overhear at any moment, “I - we - it’s _ nothing _ -”

“_I_, _we _\- you keep saying that. What are you doing? What are _the two_ _of you_ doing?”

It was a lost cause. The head of the Tozier household seemed only interested in being confrontational, and aggressive, without really hearing any of Richie’s pleas.

Richie shut his jaw tight, realizing there was no getting through to his father, and no real point in speaking.

“Your own mother dreads dealing with you most days, Richie, I can’t imagine Eddie’s mother is a fan of yours.”

That hurt.

“I don’t bother her,” Richie offered in a mumble, wounded.

“No, I’m sure you don’t,” his father replied smoothly, sipping his drink, “I’m sure you and Eddie are very discreet.” 

“We aren’t _ doing _ anything -”

“I’m meant to keep your mother and you fed, housed, and safe. That’s my job,” his father interrupted, looking at the amber liquid swirl around in his glass, “I can’t keep you from self-destructing, though, Richie, since that’s clearly what you want, so if you wanna act like a faggot, get yourself strung up on a tree in Derry, Maine, then you go ahead and do that, but by God, Richie, don’t let that boy hang next to you.”

Richie’s stomach turned over, and he felt his blood drain from his face.

His father looked to him again.

“The second you turn eighteen, you’re out of here, and you can sneak away into any boy’s room you like - you’ll regret it when you’re in a hospital bed, Richie - you’ll regret it like the rest of them do, but you let that boy swing? Hmm?”

Richie stared into his father’s fiery gaze, shaking from head to toe.

“You let that boy swing next to you, and it will be _ your _fault. You hear me? No one else’s. It’ll be too late for explanations, and excuses then. I am not going to face Mrs. Kaspbrak, and lie to her. Not once more. You hear me? You hear me, Richie?”

With only time enough to nod, Richie ran off into the nearest bathroom, and regurgitated his dinner, the ghastly image of Eddie, bloodied, beat-up, swinging from a rope, bumping shoulders with him in a tree - his stomach roiled again. 

He heard his father snicker in the hall, wondering why Richie had such a weak constitution, ‘like a girl, for Christ’s sake,’ his father mumbled; it was salt in the wound.

* * *

In the dark of the night, the fluorescent lights of the kitchen, Richie’s father had seemed so powerful, so terrifying - but now, two years later, in the daylight, cutting through the shadows of the club house, draping over Eddie’s face, painting him in an ethereal glow, all the danger seems so far away.

Back then, he’d been honest with his father - though he’d wanted to touch Eddie, and kiss Eddie, he never had. He’d never been brave enough.

The next day, he’d seen Eddie in the halls, and all he could think was ‘_don’t let that boy hang next to you_,’ and it was ice being poured down his back. That warning was scarier than anything - _ anything _ \- he’d faced before. He couldn’t bear the guilt, so he hid away, put buffers between them, stopped sneaking out at night, stopped calling - stopped. Just, _ stopped_.

He misses Eddie.

He wanted to explain, back then, why he’d withdrawn from Eddie, but he couldn’t do it without showing his cards - that was the truth. If there weren’t any feelings involved, if Richie weren't actually pining like a Jane Austen protagonist, there’d be no threat of hanging from a tree in Derry. If there weren’t more Richie wanted, if there weren't fact to the claims, if his father hadn’t been that half-right, at least, then it wouldn’t have mattered, but…

But Richie wanted more.

He still does.

His hands shake, barely touching Eddie’s face - his fingertips graze Eddie’s cheek, and he smiles, even as his chest twists up painfully. 

Carefully, and shaking all over, Richie leans in, shut his eyes, and very gently kisses the corner of Eddie’s lips.

Hot lightning shoots through him, his heart hammers away, a swarm of butterflies bursts in his stomach, the shaking gets worse, and a small, wounded noise escapes his throat - after only a moment, he’s standing up, and backing away, back toward the ladder, back to safer grounds. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Richie chants, stupidly lovesick, wanting to stay by Eddie’s side and simply watch him dream, kiss his sigh-parted lips, but needing to get away, because he’s terrified of himself, and of Eddie, and the enormity inside him, “fuck.”

He climbs the ladder, walks a few steps, then collapses near a tree, feeling as if he’s having a heart attack. 

Every inch of him is trembling, his heart feels like it’s lurching, and beating a triple the speed it’s supposed to - he just kissed Eddie. He wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to be alone with Eddie again. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way _ about _ Eddie - he wasn’t supposed to feel _ any _ of this -

“Richie?”

Glassy-eyed, and terrified, Richie twists around to see Stan approaching with caution.

“Richie? You okay? What’s going?”

Richie can feel how fucked up he must look, and by the way Stan is staring at him, he knows that no joke is going to get him out of this one.

“Richie?” Stan repeats, coming closer, “Richie, Jesus Christ - you look like you’re gonna be sick. Are you okay? What happened?”

“I -” 

It gets lodged in his throat, the way it always does.

“What?” Stan asks gently, crouching to sit next to Richie on the ground, “What is it?”

“I - I’m -” 

His throat keeps closing up, restricting even his breathing.

“Hey, hey, deep breath - take a deep breath, Richie, it’s okay, whatever it is -”

“It’s not okay! It’s not okay! It’s not okay!” Richie shouts at Stan, swatting Stan’s kind, helping hands away, “Stop it! Stop it! You don’t even know - you can’t know! You don’t know I’m - I’m -”

“Richie, are you hurt?”

“No!”

“Did you hurt someone else?”

Richie’s eyes go wide, wide enough that they feel cool from the air hitting them.

“I didn’t - uh, oh, God, I didn’t have permission - he could hate me - oh my God, Stan,” Richie rants, cupping his head into his hands, rocking backward and forward, “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -”

“Richie, did you see It? Did - is that what this is?” Stan questions, looking about the woods for some sign of a monster.

Alarm bells going off in his ears now, Richie’s head shoots up, he clambers to his feet, then turns around, ready to go back into the club house, and ready to kill that Eddie-impersonator for trying to trap him. However, when he turns to face the open hatch to the club house, it’s just Eddie standing on the steps of the ladder, rubbing his sleepy eyes in the sunlight.

“Richie?” Eddie asks sweetly, voice scratchy with sleep, “Stan? What’s going on?”

“No,” Richie belatedly answers Stan, “It wasn’t… it wasn’t the… the thing…”

Clearly unsure as to why their interaction seems so loaded, Stan glances between Eddie, and Richie, daring to touch Richie’s arm, in a show of comfort, and support.

“Richie, what’s going on?” Stan asks again, his voice warm, and kind as his hands.

“I can’t,” Richie breathes out, barely audible, his eyes stuck on Eddie’s, unable to tear away his gaze, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Eddie asks, tilting his head curiously, looking just as concerned for Richie as Stan, “What’s going on, Richie? What are you doing?”

_ “What are you doing with that boy?” _

Without any communication between his brain, and body, Richie tears off in the direction of the quarry, forgetting his bike, and abandoning his backpack; the water has been cold lately, and the jump is always good for breaking up inert adrenaline. 

He needs something to hurt himself on, and he needs to be away from Eddie Kaspbrak.

Stan and Eddie’s voices carry on after him, but he doesn’t turn back. 

Once he’s made it to the quarry, he’s out of breath, his lungs are burning, there’s a stitch in his side, his knees are wobbling, and he feels like he could burst out of his own skin at any second. He’s had attacks like this since he was thirteen, but it’s never been so violent - it’s never felt more like a seizure than a simple, if effective, shot of cortisol up his spine, but now it feels like both.

He toes off his shoes, socks, throws his shirts in a pile on the dirt, and still jean-clad, jumps into the water.

The jump itself seems to shake loose his anxiety, muting the world just enough that he can stop thinking for just a brief, precious, few seconds.

Hitting the water is helpful too, in that it hurts, and he wants that. 

He doesn’t want Eddie to get hurt. He doesn’t want to be a threat to Eddie anymore. 

He doesn’t want to be Richie Tozier anymore.

He dunks himself under the water, holding his breath for as long as he can stand it, then rising back up to break the surface, gasping, and pretending he isn’t crying at all.

His body is roaring with pain - between the panic attack, the running at top speed for at least three miles, the jump, the landing, and the holding his breath to the point of break - his body is thoroughly displeased.

“Richie?” 

“Richie!?”

“Richie!”

_ Fuck that dude, I hate that guy, _ Richie thinks to himself, _ Stop looking for him. He’s an asshole. _

To avoid confrontation, Richie dunks himself under the water again, berating himself for not having found a skillful lie to cover his tracks before just fucking running away from his two best friends - or at least to have had the forethought to hide his clothes.

He should’ve thought more about the actual logistics of getting away from Stan, and Eddie, before bounding away like a hunted animal.

_ “I _ ** _know_ ** _ you don’t _ ** _think_**_, Richie.” _

He covers his ears with his hands, under the water, as if that will block out the sound of his father’s voice, but it just rattles around the inside of his skull like shards of a broken record.

While he’s under the water, battling the demented version of his father’s voice replaying in his brain, he hears and feels someone else disrupt the surface, and he knows who it is before he pops his head up to face them.

Defeated, caught, and for all intents and purposes, cornered, Richie bobs to the surface and looks at Eddie, fully clothed, staring at him with worried, wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Richie chokes, “I’m sorry. I don’t… I’m sorry.”

“Okay - it’s okay,” Eddie insists, swimming toward him, “Richie, just stop fucking running, okay? What the fuck is going on?”

“_ Don’t _ come near me!” Richie exclaims, wading clumsily backward.

Eddie stops moving for a moment, seeming injured, and stunned, but then a new expression comes over him; he steels himself, glares at Richie, and growls out, “fucking stay put, you fucking dickwad. I am coming near you whether you like it or not.”

“Eddie -”

“No, fuck you, Richie,” Eddie interrupts, moving toward him again, “You - you disappeared on me, Richie. You wouldn’t even tell me what I did wrong. You just - so, we’re working this out, and we’re working this out right the fuck now, you useless fucking idiot. Okay?”

Richie doesn’t reply, only watches in despair as Eddie comes close enough to count his eyelashes. 

His hands come to grip Richie’s shoulders, and it’s the first they’ve been so close in nearly two years.

Richie doesn’t even remember the last time Eddie touched him.

He forgot that Eddie’s touch is so magical; that it tingles, and tickles wherever he graces Richie’s skin.

“Richie, what the fuck happened? Why… why did you go away from me? Did you just get sick of me or -”

“No! Jesus Christ, Eds, no, I never stopped -”

“So, then… what did I do? What did I do wrong?”

“You didn’t do anything, Eddie, I swear,” Richie admits, hands unconsciously moving to cup Eddie’s, “It wasn’t you, I -”

“Who was it, then?”

Richie swallows roughly, unfamiliar with the violent undertone of Eddie’s voice.

He looks furious.

“It wasn’t you just wanting to go away, so, then, who the fuck told you to stay away from me, Richie?” Eddie demands to know, his fingers bruising Richie’s light skin where they cling on dearly, “Cause it sure as Hell wasn’t me, and if you’re saying that I didn’t do anything that chased you away, then someone else did this. So, who the fuck said something to you?”

Unable to form a coherent response, Richie gapes a bit uselessly at Eddie.

“Was it my mother?”

Richie shakes his head, and shuts his mouth.

“Was it someone from school?”

Swallowing with difficulty, Richie shakes his head again, unsure as to why Eddie is being so patient with him, and unsure too about why it is he can’t speak at the times his voice is most needed.

“Was it _ your _ mother?”

The shake of his head is a bit choppier this time, and Eddie’s eyes narrow, clearly understanding he’s closing in on the offender.

“Your father,” Eddie states knowingly.

Richie doesn’t reply at all, verbally or otherwise, and Eddie sighs, seeming to understand the weight of the accusation, and the weight of its truthfulness; Eddie always understood Richie’s ping-ponging between fear, rage, and desperation for validation from his parents. 

He knows that what Richie’s father said to him must have been powerfully frightening, and Eddie’s expression immediately speaks to that understanding that Richie has so missed.

“Fuck. Fuck, Richie - what the fuck did he say to you?”

_ “...by God, Richie, don’t let that boy hang next to you.” _

“I can’t - I can’t do this, I can’t -” Richie tries extracting Eddie’s hands, but Eddie’s grip turns harder, fiercer, and he presses himself against Richie in the water, wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck.

Richie shuts his eyes against the onslaught of sensory input, and wonders if he’s dreaming.

“Stop trying to outrun me, Tozier. I am fucking _ sick _ of life without you.”

Wondering if he’s heard Eddie correctly, Richie opens his eyes to find Eddie bravely gazing into his.

Seeing he’s captured Richie’s attention properly, he shakes his head, as if trying to communicate something hard to translate, “I’m so sick of this, without you, Richie. You’re my best friend. Stop trying to run away from me. Come back.”

Very much against his will, Richie’s eyes well up with tears.

_ “Come back.” _

_ “Come back.” _

_ “Come back.” _

_ God _ , Richie thinks, _ I want to come back. I wanna come back to you. _

It’s a struggle to open his mouth, to just fucking _ say _ anything, and this time, he tries to say something honest again, he tries to say to Eddie what he couldn’t say to Stan, or to anyone else since he was maybe seven or eight fucking years old.

“I - I… I’m…”

“What?” Eddie presses, drawing closer to Richie, holding him as closely as he can, “You’re what, Richie?”

Richie shuts his eyes again, devastated, terrified, and he lets out a sob, “I… I’m…”

“You’re safe, Richie - you’re safe with me. It’s okay, whatever it is.”

“Oh God,” Richie despairs, wanting to hide, but having nowhere to go, and no real inclination to leave the circle of Eddie’s arms, “Fuck. I... I’m…”

“Richie,” he hears Eddie begin gently, “Open your eyes.”

Begrudgingly, Richie does (because, in truth, Eddie could ask anything of him, and he'd see it done, no matter what it cost).

Smiling with his lips and eyes like a saint, Eddie murmurs, “there is literally nothing you could ever say, or do, Richie, that would change my opinion of you. Okay? You could tell me you’ve killed someone, and I’ll help you bury the body. I mean - I might have follow-up questions, but the point stands. Okay?”

Tears slip down Richie’s face, and Eddie’s smile only turns sweeter.

“I’m not going anywhere, Richie. I miss you. You can tell me anything - anything at all. You’re still going to be my best friend, okay? Just come back to me.”

There’s a huff of hot breath from Eddie’s exhale that travels over Richie’s lips, and everything smells like fresh air, and mossy water, and springtime, and fucking Eddie Goddamn Kaspbrak, and Richie can’t _ take it _anymore.

“I’m-I’m in love with you - I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you,” he breathes out all at once, and then he’s kissing Eddie’s lips, in broad daylight, where anyone could find them, see them, hurt them, kill them - hurt or kill _ Eddie _.

He pushes that thought from his mind, intent on enjoying what he is sure are the last euphoric moments he’ll have of Eddie Kaspbrak’s friendship.

Winding an arm around Eddie’s waist, Richie pulls him in tightly, bumping their chests, and stomachs, and Eddie tastes like tic tacs, and rainwater, smells vaguely of antibacterial hand gel and pine, and Richie doesn’t know when, or how, but Eddie’s hands find their way to his hair.

Fingers comb into his curls, gripping, tugging gently, and a moan reverberates from Eddie’s throat, against Richie’s lips, and Richie swallows it, returns it - then he breaks the kiss, suddenly petrified again.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

“Jesus, sorry, Richie, did you want me to just stand there like a statue?” Eddie jokes, smirking with a cocked brow.

“No - you’re supposed to, like - hit me, or something -”

“Richie, I’ve wanted to kiss you since like, the eighth grade,” Eddie laughs, looking up at him through wet-clumped eyelashes, “The only thing I’m mad about is that instead of telling me the good news, you went away.”

Still half-convinced he’s hallucinating somehow, Richie’s brow scrunches up in bewilderment, and he tells Eddie, “but people here -”

“You’re worth it.”

Richie stops breathing.

A hand comes to cup his cheek, and Eddie begins closing the space between them again, “your dad’s backwards as fuck, Richie - he grew up in a different time. Even if it were just as dangerous today as it was for him, when he was our age, I’d still wanna be with you. I’d rather be bloody, and fucked up, and brave next to you, than be anything else, without you.”

Shaking his head, Richie glances between both Eddie’s eyes, back and forth, wondering how in the world this could be real.

“I’d so much rather spend my life standing next to you, than kneeling alone for the sake of anyone else’s comfort.”

“Your life?” Richie awkwardly croaks out, heart making a valiant effort to climb up his throat.

Eddie nods, the hand on Richie’s cheek, moving to his hair again, “forever and ever, Richie. It’s what you do for someone you’re in love with. I’ll wait for you, and sometimes you wait for me - but we can walk together. We can do this together, Richie. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

Tugging Eddie in as close as he can get him, Richie embraces him tightly, trembling against the crook of Eddie’s neck.

“I love you, Richie.”

“Fuck. Fuck, okay - okay,” Richie starts, smiling and crying against Eddie’s skin, “Yeah. I-I love you too, Eds.”

“Ugh, don’t call me -”

Richie reaches up then, and kisses Eddie.

He feels Eddie smile against the kiss before deepening it, encircling Richie’s neck with his lanky arms again; Richie’s hands spread to Eddie’s waist, and neck, holding to him tightly.

His father may think he’s weak, and sometimes, that’s right - sometimes, Richie is weak, but Eddie thinks that’s okay, and so Richie believes it’s okay.

His mother may not have ever been a fan of his - that’s true, and it stings, but Eddie is. Eddie loves him, and it may not be the same as having a mother to love him, but to Richie, it’s more than enough. 

They may have a lot to fear, he and Eddie Kaspbrak, but as Eddie slips his tongue between their lips, eager to kiss Richie into the next millenia, Richie thinks, whatever they face, they can face it together. 

He’s not alone.

“_Finally _! Jesus fucking Christ! You infuriating fucking brats! I thought it would be another fucking eon before you two fucking worked this stupid shit out!”

Eddie and Richie break apart to look up at their jumping point, and see Stan standing there with hands on his hips, and his face flushed from having run around, probably looking for the both of them.

“You two are actual nightmares, you know that, right?” Stan calls down to them.

“I love you too, Stan the Man!” Richie chirps back at him, grinning a big, goofy smile.

“He hates that,” Eddie tells Richie with a smile, as if Richie doesn’t know.

“You suck, Tozier!”

“Fucking jump in the water, you pussy! Swim with us! We’re celebrating our love!”

“Oh my God,” Eddie groans, half-laughing as he covers his face against Richie’s chest.

Stan smirks devilishly, then turns around, and shouts, “hey, Bill! Ben! Mike! Richie and Eddie are hosting a party in honor of their mutual love, fucking _finally_! They invited us to swim with them in celebration!”

The rest of the Losers come into view, with varying degrees of humor writ over their faces.

Richie mutters to Eddie, “nevermind - maybe you should drown me here.”

“This is your fault.”

“That is so unfair. You made all those romantic proclamations - what the fuck was I supposed to do? Not kiss you? Does that seem reasonable to you?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie repeats, shaking with laughter.

The Losers jump in, one after another, whooping, whistling, and making kiss noises at both of them, laughing and smiling, eager to hug Richie, and clap Eddie on the back - and Richie realizes quite quickly that it will never truly be only Eddie and he against the world.

It never was, and it never will be.


End file.
